


An Open Invitation

by lferion



Series: Lavender House [5]
Category: Highlander: The Series, Lord John Series - Diana Gabaldon
Genre: Chair Sex, Community: fan_flashworks, Immortal Lord John, Inspired by Photography, M/M, Stockings
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-29
Updated: 2017-01-29
Packaged: 2018-09-20 15:01:27
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 366
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9497213
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lferion/pseuds/lferion
Summary: Red-heeled shoes and an armchair





	

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Unovis](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Unovis/gifts).



> Inspired by [this image.](http://i387.photobucket.com/albums/oo320/mininano_2008/2013%20Prompts/InChair_zps252d3f95.jpg) Also, Unovis once mentioned a wish for 'Methos wearing nothing but a banyan'. This isn't quite that, but I hope it serves.
> 
> Originally posted [here](https://fan-flashworks.dreamwidth.org/428620.html) on Fan Flashworks for Amnesty 21, prompt 'Red.'

John was wearing long, clocked silk stockings, and his shoes had high red heels: the epitome of fashion, some hundreds of years gone, now come round again. His gold hair curled on the collar of his banyan (also silk, an elegant summer-weight moiré) like floss, fine and pale against the rich grain of the purple-black fabric. His lashes lay demurely lowered, startlingly dark against his fair skin, but the light that glinted under them was anything but innocent. The high back of the chair supported his head, the carved curve of walnut framing the ivory of his exposed throat, echoing the long line of smooth chest revealed where the silk fell open. No breeches or small-clothes hindered the eye. An involuntary half-step forward and the chair-arm no longer occluded the V where canted hips met spread thighs, and a thicket of honey-gold curls set off a proud cock, upstanding and flushed. 

Methos felt himself harden at the sight, and he ached to tease that silk-clad ankle, taste the expanse of skin above the stocking line, encircle that sturdy column and unsheathe the head that glistened, half-hidden. He wanted to delve deep into the shadowed places suggested by the chair-edge and the angle of John's hips. He knew what John was offering with this tableau that hearkened back to the earliest days of their acquaintance, and he wanted it. Wanted it with a fierceness he had nigh forgotten he could feel.

Another step, and his flies were open (satin cool and smooth against fingers that itched for silken warmth) and smallclothes in disarray. The look John gave him under those demurely lowered lashes as he let his knees fall open just that little more was pure mischief. Methos licked his lips, cock rising from its own linen nest, arse pulsing in anticipation of delight. A dish of oil lay ready to hand, a slick sheen of it visible between John's thighs. He'd readied himself thoroughly, Methos understood, just as he had, all those years before.

John did not often want penetration, but when he did, he wanted to feel it, wanted the stretch, the fullness, the slick, slow push. Methos was happy, more than happy, to oblige.


End file.
